There is a running gag in the movie, “My Cousin Vinny,” where, night after night, Joe Pesci and Marisa Tomei are woken up by a different loud noise. Eventually, the couple retreats to a cottage in the middle of the woods and all seems well — until the peace and quiet is shattered by the call of a screech owl. Frustrated, Pesci rushes out the front door and wildly fires a pistol into the darkness.

That scene gets me every time, but lately the scenario is a bit more real to me — at least when it comes to the things that keep waking up my 2-year old son, Bronco.

It all started with the train horn. My wife and I moved to a new neighborhood in May and, during our buying process, one of the houses we seriously considered had a train track going right past the house. We were assured the trains only went by during the day and that they wore velvet slippers, but it didn’t really work out. Our new house is not in view of any train tracks, so it didn’t occur to me that trains might become a consideration. Oops.

It was a warm summer night, and my entire family was sleeping peacefully. At about 3 a.m., I sat bolt upright in bed as the scream of a train horn filled my ears. There was another blast, and then another — long, booming peals. I waited a beat, and from my son’s room came a scream of “Daaaaady!”

I tried to soothe Bronco with the fact that it was just a train (maybe Thomas!), but he was spooked and it took some time for him to settle back down. My infant daughter, who had not yet begun to understand that sleep is important, snoozed through the entire episode.

It makes sense that blowing the horn at crossings is required, and since the trains run on a fairly regular schedule in these parts, I hoped Bronco would just get used to the noise. It soon became clear that this wouldn’t be the case, however, because the person driving the train at that time of night is such a safety nut that he or she lays on that horn long enough to ensure that everyone in three counties hears it at every crossing. (Or maybe, just maybe, he or she is a bit of a @#$!&). After several nights of interrupted sleep, my wife and I broke down and bought a white noise machine for the boy.

The white noise machine solved the train problem for the most part (it only fails when the train operator has that extra cup of coffee). The machine also took care of the early morning trash trucks, noisy cars, barking dogs (sometimes our own), leaf blowers, school buses and other random sounds that occur in any neighborhood. Life was good. I had a small fear that the boy will become addicted to white noise (hey man, you want to buy some static?), but it was working so I didn’t want to over think it.

Then, on a few mornings over the summer (as I have written about previously), the smoke alarms in our house began sounding, despite the fact there was no fire or smoke in the house. This would almost always be due to the fact that, after using a bit of hairspray, my wife would dare to open the bathroom door. The smoke alarm would see the hairspray particles in the air and think, “Smoke!” The resulting honking (which feels like it is actually reaching through your ears to tap on your brain) resulted in my dog running in circles and my son screaming. My daughter slept through the entire episode (I have no idea how).

I changed the smoke alarm in question and my wife started to deny free reign to the hair spray particles, which seemed to fix the smoke alarm problem (I can almost hear my smoke alarms chuckling at this notion).Once again there was peace and tranquility in the land…until the other day.

We had enjoyed the company of some guests on a recent Friday night, and the festivities continued well past our usual bedtimes. This, as all parents of young children know, can make the following day a bit of a challenge. My wife and I were prepared for a tired morning, but then something wonderful happened: The kids slept in. As the minutes ticked by, I think I was having dreams about how amazing it was that my children were still sleeping. Then, at 8 a.m. on the dot, the scream of a loud whistle shattered the peaceful morning. This was no train — it was loud enough to easily overwhelm the white noise machine. My son immediately began screaming. My daughter slept through it.

This whistle, I suspect, remains simply as a remnant from Clinton’s mill town past. It blew every day (Monday through Saturday, anyway) at 8 a.m., noon, and 6 p.m. to let the mill workers know when to start work, go to lunch and then quit for the day. And, if Clinton ever finds itself in a situation where it has a large number of mill workers and a shortage of clocks again, I’m sure that whistle will come in handy. Until that day comes, however, it’s just historical noise pollution.

“Hey, there’s that annoying whistle. It must be 6 o’clock. Huh.”

So, the sleep thing is an ongoing struggle for little Bronco. As he grows up, hopefully he’ll get acclimated to the trains and steam whistles, and that the problems with our smoke alarms will fade into the past. I figure it’s either that or he’ll become a fan of reckless gunfire.

Tim McCaffrey is a freelance columnist who lives in Clinton. He can be reached at stged20@gmail.com.